“Absolutely,” he said with relief, but nobody paid attention when he resumed. We were all waiting for the deputy to come back.
Cindy gave me a sidelong hug. “Don’t you worry, honey. I already called Forrest, and my daddy.” A lawyer too, I assumed. “If they try anything, we’re ready for them.”
“Thanks. That makes me feel much better,” I lied.
An approaching siren broke the silence as Stephen finished Helen’s hair, almost drowning out his “And voilà,” as he fluffed the flattering shag.
The doorbell rang, and Jack jumped up and stashed the remaining crumbs of his food as Alicia opened the door and let the older deputy in.
Hands gripped in my lap, I said a fervent prayer that this would all go away.
The older deputy walked over to Jack and whispered something, then Jack left.
He then approached me with a sheepish, “Miz Callison, much as it pains me to have to do this, I’m gonna have to ask you to come downtown with me. Since charges have been filed on both sides, we’re gonna have to take everybody in and let a judge sort this out.”
My guests erupted in protest.
Arrested? I was being arrested?
“Normally,” the deputy said, “we’d take everybody down and book them, then wait for the judge to set bail. But because of the …”—I swear, he almost smiled—“unusual circumstances here, one of our Superior Court judges has agreed to hear the charges immediately.”
A smug look on her face, Cindy clutched my shoulders. “Do not say a word till Forrest gets there. No small talk, no nothing. Not one word, except, ‘I want to see my lawyer.’ I’ll call him, then be right behind you in my car.” She gave me a peck on the cheek. “See you in court, sweetie.” She smiled in reassurance. “Trust me, this is going to go away.”
Alicia spoke for the rest of my supporters. “We’re coming too. We’re witnesses.”
I motioned to her as I rose. “Please call Greg and tell him what’s happened, first,” I asked. Not that he could do anything from Chicago. “His number is beside my bed.”
Alicia nodded. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll get him.”
He was going to kill me for this. Especially if the firm’s name got dragged into it.
Fighting back tears, I faced the deputy. “Are you going to handcuff me?”
Sympathy softened his features. “No, ma’am. As long as you cooperate, that won’t be necessary.”
Thank God. “I’ll cooperate.”
“I really am sorry about this.” He took my arm. “If you’ll just come with me …”
Feeling like I was living a Fellini movie, I went outside to find cameras from not only WSB, but WAGA and WXIA aimed my way.
Across the street on her porch, Kat jumped up in dismay as the protesters cheered my arrest. But their cheers stopped abruptly when three more patrol cars and a paddy wagon, sirens fading, ran the stop sign at the corner and headed their way. The cameras did a one-eighty to record their arrival.
Jack hollered for everyone to remain where they were, but one of the protesters booked it for the hills. The cameras captured Jack’s pursuit and apprehension of the runner. Meanwhile, six patrolmen corralled the rest of the demonstrators, then herded them into the paddy wagon amid protests of “pig” and “fascist.”
Halfway down the driveway by then, I halted abruptly in fear. “Are you going to put me in there with them?” Heaven only knew what would happen, if he did.
“No, ma’am,” the deputy assured me. “You’ll be with Jack and me.”
Another small blessing in the midst of chaos. “Thank you so much.”
Meanwhile, a significant number of my guests made for their cars to follow. “Remember,” Cindy called as I was escorted into the backseat of the squad car, “don’t say anything till Forrest gets there!”
I turned my head to escape the blinding glare of the cameras as the patrol car inched through the confusion for what seemed like ten minutes. Then, at last, we left them behind.
Dear heaven. My arrest was going to be on the nightly news.
I prayed that UFOs would buzz the White House, or anything of similar newsworthiness that would bump my story to oblivion, where it belonged.
Obeying Cindy’s instructions, I didn’t say a word all the way downtown. Sirens blaring, the paddy wagon caught up with us and followed the rest of the way to the Georgia Superior Court building, where a crowd of reporters waited.
“Maybe we ought to take her to a secure entrance,” Jack suggested.
His partner nodded. “For once, a good idea.”
So while the media cannibalized the protesters, we went around back where I was able to get out, unobserved, at a secure parking area, then make it to the courtroom unmolested by the media.
The bench was empty when we entered from a back hallway. “Ma’am, if you’ll please just sit right here,” Jack told me, indicating a chair beside the far table facing the bench.
“Thank you.” I sat, my legs still trembling.
One of the two bailiffs, a heavyset black man, came up and offered a gentle, “May I get you some water, ma’am?”
I realized my mouth was dry as dust. “Thank you. Please.”
Everyone was being so nice.
I wondered if they’d be that nice if I were black, or looked like Kat and her friends.
Speak of the devil, the doors to the courtroom burst open as the deputies led in the protesters, followed by a huge crowd of reporters and spectators.
I’d expected the reporters, but the others … Where had they come from? I watched the seats fill to capacity with a smattering of hippies and a jillion executive types clad in expensive professional attire. More than a few in suits waved to me or gave me the thumbs-up.
What was going on? All I’d done was use a blunt object to cut part of a beard and one swipe of hair from the trespassers on my property, after I’d given them plenty of time to leave.
Embarrassment sent heat surging up from my chest, setting my ears aflame. Please, Lord, let something earthshaking happen somewhere else, right this minute—with no loss of life or property, of course. Anything, to take the attention off me. All I did was cut some trespassers’ hair and beard!
Cindy’s husband, an impeccably dressed, good-looking guy with a thick mane of dark hair, strode into the courtroom and made a beeline for me. When he extended his hand to shake mine, I noted his starched French cuffs and real gold cuff links. “Hi, Betsy. You probably don’t remember me, but I’m Cindy’s husband, Forrest. We met at the last fund-raiser.”
I didn’t know how cold my hands were till I shook his warm one. “Of course I remember you. Thank you so much for coming. This whole thing is so crazy.”
He nodded, grasping my upper arm with his free hand in reassurance. “Don’t worry. Cindy filled me in. This shouldn’t take long.” He gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Remember, at times like this, it’s not what you know, but who you know.”
Whatever that meant.
“Thank you so much for coming,” I told him, my voice shaky. “I’ll be happy to pay you—”
He raised a staying hand. “Don’t even think of it. What are friends for?”
Another blessing, and not a small one. “I really appreciate that.” The knot in my chest eased a smidgen. Greg wouldn’t be quite so mad if this didn’t cost us anything.
A tingle in my back prompted me to turn around and look at the protesters sitting in the first four rows across the aisle. My focus settled immediately on Kat, who gazed at me, her face distraught. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed. “So sorry.”
Tears welled in my eyes. Part of me wanted to forgive her on the spot, but the rest of me, wounded and angry, shouted silently, Why didn’t you think about the consequences before you did this to me?
Then my inner guilt accused, You chose to cut their hair. Why didn’t you think about the consequences before you did that?
I should have. This was just as much my fault as it was hers. I should have just calle
d the cops.
Closing my eyes, I turned away from Kat. She’d already been arrested a dozen times for protesting. I didn’t even know where the jail was.
The kind bailiff joined his counterpart at the front of the courtroom. “All rise for the Honorable Tiberius Blount, judge of the Superior Court of Georgia.”
As we all stood, a wave of dismay went through the opposition.
“Judge Blount,” I whispered softly. “Where have I heard of him before?”
“Probably in the paper,” my lawyer whispered back, out of the corner of his mouth. He leaned close to my ear. “Crazy as a bedbug, but a rabid right-winger. He’s Cindy’s second cousin, once removed. Thinks she hung the moon.”
Relief flooded through me. At long last, the good ol’ boy network was working in my favor.
Happily, the judge didn’t look crazy. A medium-sized, balding man with reading glasses, he sat down and scowled at something on his desk.
“You may be seated,” the bailiff announced.
We sat. After a long pause, during which I deduced that the judge was reading something, he looked up. “Are all the parties involved present?”
Jack and his partner stood. “They are, Your Honor.”
“Thank you. You may be seated.” Cindy’s cousin started reading again. As the silence lengthened, a murmur arose in the spectators, prompting him to bang his gavel.
“Order in the court,” the bailiff scolded.
After what seemed like an hour, the judge looked up at last. “I see that Mrs. Callison has an attorney present to represent her. Am I correct?”
My lawyer rose. “You are, Your Honor.”
“Long time no see, Forrest,” the judge said, then told me, “Good choice.”
Then he looked to the protesters. “Do any of you wish to have an attorney present to represent you? Under the law, that is your right. I can delay these proceedings while you acquire representation, if you so desire.”
Kat stood. “Yer Honor, may we please talk this over among ourselves fer a minute?”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Be my guest, as long as you maintain order and respect.”
“Thank you, Yer Honor.” Kat turned to the demonstrators. “Does anybody have a lawyer they’d like to call? Please raise yer hand if you do.” After subdued discussion they fell silent, and no hands went up. When she was sure everybody had had time to consider, Kat asked, “Does anybody wanta be represented by a public defender? Please raise yer hand if you want a public defender.” That prompted several snorts of derision from her cohorts, but once again, there were no takers.
“Okay, then,” she said. “Would any of you like to represent yerselves?”
All of them raised their hands, including Kat.
She turned to face the judge. “As you kin see, Yer Honor, it’s unanimous. We want to act pro se in this matter.”
The judge glared at her. “That is your right, little lady.”
Kat reddened in outrage at his dismissive form of address, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Forrest whispered in my ear, “The only thing old Ti hates worse than hippies is people who act pro se. Puts a real burden on the judge.”
The judge went on. “But are you sure you and your … hippie friends,” he said with obvious disapproval, “understand the seriousness of such a decision? Are you competent to make such a choice, little girl?”
That tore it with Kat. Her accent was wide open when she shot back, “Just because I look like this and talk like this, does not mean I am ignerent, sir, or my friends. This ain’t the first time we’ve been to court fer protestin’ the corrupt Republican administration, and it won’t be the last.”
Oh, Kat.
The gavel came down. “Watch your tongue, missy, or I’ll hold you in contempt.”
The ex-law student jumped up. “We hold you in contempt. This trial is a farce.”
Reporters scribbled away furiously as the judge aimed his gavel at the offender. “Bailiff, take that man into custody.” He banged his desk, then narrowed his eyes at the shocked protester. “I hereby fine you three thousand dollars and sentence you to thirty days in jail for contempt.” He waved his gavel. “Take him away.”
Three thousand dollars? Could he do that?
Kat and her buddies watched in resentful silence as the bailiff carried out the judge’s order.
Judge Blount smoothed the front of his robe, then said, “Very well. Be it so noted that the protesters in question have chosen to act in their own behalf.”
After consulting his notes again, he said, “According to these statements, the protesters in the first four rows, here, obstructed Mrs. Betsy Callison’s invited guests from entering her property for a makeover party, despite Mrs. Callison’s repeated peaceful requests that they stop assaulting and obstructing her guests.” No guessing which way the wind blew with him. “Then said protesters trespassed onto Mrs. Callison’s private property, where they lay down and obstructed access to Mrs. Callison’s home, despite Mrs. Callison’s repeated peaceful requests that they leave.” Reporters scribbled away as he shuffled the notes.
The judge went on. “When the trespassers refused to go back to the sidewalk, Mrs. Callison announced that they were eligible for free makeovers, along with her other guests.” A low buzz among the onlookers elicited no rebuke from the bench. The judge just raised his voice. “Mrs. Callison then made it clear that by remaining on her property, the protesters were agreeing to participate in the makeovers, which included a shave and a haircut.”
Chuckles erupted from the gallery, but the judge didn’t seem to mind.
He peered over his readers at Kat. “Have I got that right so far?”
After a brief, murmured conference across the aisle, Kat rose. “That is correct, Your Honor.”
The judge nodded. “Then, after repeated clarifications of the terms, Mrs. Callison chose a makeover winner among the protesters and, using electric clippers, not scissors,” he emphasized, “proceeded to begin shaving”—he looked back to his notes—“one Julius Rabinowitz”—more chuckles—“who then got up and threatened Mrs. Callison with violence, only to be stopped by one Kat Rutledge, who lives across the street from Mrs. Callison, and is her best friend.”
Julius shot to his feet. “She cut my beard! That’s a felony!”
The judge practically crawled over his desk. “Do not dare to lecture this court on the law, sir! I, and I alone, will decide if a crime has been committed here! Now sit down and shut up, unless you want to join your loudmouth friend!”
Wisely, Julius sat down.
The judge pointed to the guy I’d skunked. “You, sir, with the blessed beginnings of a crew cut. Please stand.”
His hand protectively over his bald patch, the guy stood.
“State your name for the court.”
The guy looked down, barely managing a thready, “Ken Stilson.”
“Do you still wish to prefer charges against Mrs. Callison?” Judge Blount asked in a warning tone.
The guy glanced from me to the judge, and back again, then bent his head and mumbled something that prompted a hissed reaction among the ranks.
“Speak up, young man,” the judge ordered. “I’m not a psychic.”
“No, sir,” the guy repeated loudly. “I do not.”
“You do not what?” the judge demanded.
“I do not wish to prefer charges.” The guy sat abruptly and slunk down.
Judge Blount smiled. “Be it so noted, that Ken Stilson has dropped the charges against Mrs. Callison.” He aimed his gavel at Julius. “And you, sir. Stand up.” Julius slowly rose. “After further consideration,” the judge said, “do you still wish to prefer charges against Mrs. Callison?”
Julius shot a pained glance to Kat, but remained mute.
“Speak up, sir,” the judge insisted. “Have you reconsidered bringing charges against the law-abiding citizen on whose property you were criminally trespassing?”
So much for a fair trial.
Julius bent to whisper in Kat’s ear. Kat nodded, then rose to address the court. “Yer Honor, you told Mr. Rabinowitz to remain silent on threat of contempt.”
“Smart-ass hippies,” the judge muttered, then said, “He has the court’s permission to speak when directly addressed by the bench.”
“I am still preferring charges against Mrs. Callison,” Julius said, defiant.
Kat briefly closed her eyes in dread.
The judge turned to me. “And you, Mrs, Callison,” he said kindly, “do you wish to prefer charges against these … hippie trespassers?”
Forrest put a staying hand on my forearm as he rose. But his “Yes, Your Honor” was drowned out by my firm “No, Your Honor,” as I stood beside him.
“Counsel,” the judge warned Forrest. “Consult with your client.” He looked behind me. “I see a Mrs. Louise Taylor, one of Mrs. Callison’s guests, listed as bringing charges for assault. Mrs. Taylor, you wish to prefer charges.” It was a statement, not a question.
Cindy’s friend started to rise behind me, but I turned and shook my head no. She looked from the judge to me in confusion.
“No,” I said in a desperate whisper. “Please don’t.”
She shrugged, then did as I asked. “No, Your Honor. On further consideration, I have decided to drop the charges.”
The judge was not amused. “Very well. Be it so noted.” He frowned down at me. “You are certain, Mrs. Callison, that you do not wish to press charges?”
“No charges, Your Honor. Kat’s my best friend,” I explained. “No matter what she did, I can’t have her put in jail.”
Pencils scribbled harder as a buzz of sympathy passed through the onlookers.
Across the aisle, the trespassers looked at me in shame—all but Julius/Moose, who was still loaded for bear, maybe because his sissy first name had been revealed in public, and I do mean public.
Kat had a furious sotto voce argument with him, but he clearly refused to budge.
“Betsy,” Forrest whispered in a patronizing tone, “I know you care about your friend, but she and the others broke the law. It won’t look good if you don’t press charges.”
Wife-in-Law Page 8
